He folded the duster over his arm and picked up the Winchester. Next to it was his trail-worn cowboy hat with the red lone star on the side. He discarded the black gambler’s hat with the satin band and placed the familiar old Stetson on his head.
“Guess I wasn’t cut out to be no fancy gambling man,” he mumbled as he walked out the door.
CHAPTER 6
LOVE THY MOTHER
Mike McGhan strolled casually down the wood sidewalk into Bridgeport, the section of Chicago the old timers called “the patch.” It was the sixth ward, the only place on earth Mike knew of where the Irish were the masters. Their domain was row upon row of dismal one-room shanties and tenement houses. Each had a carefully-cultivated vegetable garden and usually a goat tethered in the back yard for milk and garbage disposal. As depressing as it looked, it always comforted Mike with its familiarity. Everywhere he looked there was a memory. He glanced across the street and he pictured his younger self and little Johnny O’Shay hanging around the men talking on the corner, waiting for one to throw away a cigarette butt from which two boys could steal a few more desperate puffs.
He pushed the gate at his mother’s place and it moved only far enough that he be permitted to enter. It was one of the many things he should fix but never seemed to find the time. When his father was alive, he never had to concern himself with such mundane tasks. The old man was overjoyed when something broke so he had the opportunity to roll up his sleeves and attack the problem. He would grumble and cuss and beg the saints for patience but would enjoy every minute of it. He noticed that his mother had already been out in the garden preparing the soil for another planting. Mike stood on the porch a moment considering the freshly turned earth, relieved that spring was here.
“Hey, where’s me darlin’ mother,” he shouted as he came through the door without knocking.
“Your darlin’ mother tis over here darnin’ her ungrateful son’s socks, if yuh must be knowin’,” came a reply from the parlor. “Even a lowly sot from County Mayo would be showin’ more respect.”
Mike swept off his hat with a dramatic flurry and knelt in front of the gray-haired woman hunched over in a chair. He picked up each hand and kissed it elaborately.
“Right you are mother dear and bless these precious hands that keep the cold ov uh Chicago winter from nippin’ young Michael McGhan’s wee little toes.”
“Young, indeed,” she said scornfully pulling her hand away from him. “I got uh son thirty-two yars ov age without the least prospects ov marriage. Thet is uh grim thought fer a poor widow woman whose husband has already passed fer his reward. There will be no grandchildren tuh carry forth the McGhan name.”
“Grandchildren!” Mike drew back, feinting surprise. “I have two sisters producing litters of grandchildren. Why, on Sunday I can scarce move through this house for all the nieces and nephews under foot. Sure but ye’re blessed with grandchildren.”
“Dun’t be dancin’ aroond the issue, Michael. You know watt I mean. There will be no one tah carry on the proud name ov yer blessed father, may his soul rest in peace.”
“Now, mother, you know yer only son is much like yer dearly departed husband. The apple never falls far from duh tree. The more yuh pester a hard-headed Irishman about somthin’, the less likely he is tuh ever do it.”
“Harriet Flanagan broke up with Jack Daley last week,” she continued without missing a beat. “I always felt it wuz a crime fer thet fine girl to be weddin’ the likes uh him. When thet man drinks, there’s uh dee-vil in him. The Irish curse is on him sure.”
“I dun’t mean tuh be critical ov yer judgment Mrs. McGhan but have yuh noticed that dear Harriet has been fillin’ out some ov late.”
“She ah fine full figure ov uh woman, Michael McGhan,” his mother retorted defensively. “A healthy lass able tuh bear uh dozen children and do uh good day’s wark in the bargain.”
“Oh, I’ll give yuh thet,” chided Mike. “She is healthy and then some.”
“I am supposin’ thet yer taste runs towards the skinny side like thet hussy Nell Quinn.”
The mischievous smile disappeared from Mike’s face. She was tired of being toyed with and broached the subject that had kept them at odds for the past year. He folded his hands and looked at her patiently. She met his gaze, bristling with self-righteousness.
“Mother,” he began with resignation, “why do you insist on bringin’ up Nell? I’ve told you over and over that I simply look after duh girl. She’s with uh bad lot down there on duh levee and I just keep an eye on her. It’s no more than I would do fer any poor lass from Bridgeport thet had fallen upon hard times.”
“Tell me alot ov tall tales, Michael, but dun’t be poortrayin’ Nell Quinn as uh victim. Thet girl’s got the schmin’ heart ov a bathhouse poletician and she never has yet found a man she couldn’t use in some wicked way.”
“How many Irish girls have been sorely used as was Nell by some uptown big shot? It’s uh common thing. The Connelly girl last year. Takin’ advantage ov by duh head of shippin’ at Marshall Field. He’s no more than uh lackey uptown but to a poor wide-eyed girl from Bridgeport, he’s uh knight in shinin’ armor. Then his wife finds out and he drops her like she were uh bag ov dirty laundry. She’s no longer respectable and unable to return tuh her family without bringin’ them disgrace.”
“Tis true thet par Maureen Connelly is down in duh levee plyin’ a sorted trade,” his mother acknowledged, “but how many times ‘ave yuh checked upon her lately?”
Michael rose from her side and went to the sink where he began working the handle of the pump vigorously. Margaret McGhan smiled with some satisfaction now that she had gained the upper hand.
“Yuh have tuh pour some water in the top tuh prime it these days. The leathers are worn and are in need ov replacin’. If yuh would come by moor often, you would probably be rememberin’ thet.”
Michael ignored her advice and pumped furiously now without turning to look at her. When the water finally came, he stuck his mouth into the stream and drank.
“Michael Callan McGhan, get a glass down from the cupboard. Don’t be drinking like some barnyard annemal. You were brought up better than thet.”
Mike returned to her side with a glass of water as directed. He looked at her and smiled in resignation.
“Yuh wouldn’t have a shot ov hooch tuh brighten the taste, would yuh?”
“Yuh know there hasn’t been a drop ov alkeyhal in this house since yer father’s wake, rest his soul,” she said without looking at him. “Besides, it’s the shank ov the afternoon and I par-sume yer still on duty. When are yuh goin’ tuh get aroond tuh tellin’ me why ye’re here? Then yuh cun get back tuh doin’ watt the taxpayers pay yuh fer.”
“I have tuh go away fer a few weeks,” he began, sitting down next to her with a sigh. “It seems young Sean Daugherty has escaped from jail and they want me tuh go out West and fetch him.”
“And what is the reasonin’ behind sending a city boy out West tuh track down this supposed killer. Thet would seem duh be a fool’s errand.”
“Well, I know what he looks like,” he said weakly.
“Ye’re the only deteccative on duh force thet can spot Sean Daugherty?” she asked skeptically.
“Oh, yuh know there’s some poletics to it,” he explained. “They probably see there being less trouble down here in duh patch if an Irishman picks him up.”
“Pick him oop,” his mother said mockingly. “Duh yuh think Sean Daugherty is going tuh be waitin’ on the bench at a train station fer yuh? It sounds like moor then a little poletics goin’ on. Why dun’t they just send out a warrant and let some policeman out there pick him oop? Isn’t thet watt they usually would do to handle sooch a thing?”
“The lad killed duh wife ov duh man thet might be the next goovernor. I hardly think they’re goin’ tuh wait around til some yocal sheriff picks ‘im up for lollygaggin’ around his town. I was in duh horse patrol too, if you’d be rememberin’. This parsuit ain’t g
oin’ tuh be on foot.”
“So they got to send duh most famous Irish deteccative in Chicago? The hero ov the Haymarket Riots and duh best shot on the force.”
“I think yuh answered yer own question. Those are probably the very reasons they want me tuh go.”
Mike rose and walked over to the kitchen counter. He rolled his glass around in his big hand thoughtfully before placing it in the sink.
“Well, from watt I’ve been harin’ aroond the parish,” she said, “I dun’t know if it’s sooch uh sure thing thet young Sean Daugherty killed thet par woman. There are those thet swear he would soon shew a fly as swat it. They say he’s a boy ov good manners and a mild temparment. Thet he has not the heart fer sooch a foul deed.”
“I guess thet’s fer duh courts tuh decide,” Mike said without conviction. He had only met Daugherty once at a church ice cream social and he seemed like a nice enough young man. He remembered him being ambitious though. Talking a lot about improving his position in life. Ambition can make people do funny things.
“Well, thar’s precious little yuh can do about it now, Michael. You have to play out’ the hand yuh was dealt, as yer father would say.” She got up spryly and walked into his old bedroom. She returned with a worn carpetbag that was at least thirty years old. “I only packed yuh one good suit since I figured yuh would have little use fer another in thet God-forsaken wilderness they’re sendin’ yuh to.”
“I had uh feeling yuh knew all about this here deal already,” he said, quickly taking the bag from her. “I think I could ov packed me own bags, if yuh dun’t mind.”
“Oh, I figured yuh had enough tuh do, leavin’ on sooch short notice and all.”
“And when exactly am I leavin’?” Mike asked.
“On the eight o’clock train fer Cheyenne in the marnin’.”
“Patrick Donegal,” he said, taking his best guess at her source of information.
She looked away and said nothing. Mike took this as an affirmation.
“Well, thet will teach yuh to get yer information from a newsman. I’m goin’ farther down the line tuh Rock Springs. A marshal there tellygraphed me personally tuh say he’s got uh special man fer the job.”
“Special man, huh,” she snorted skeptically.
“His name is Cassidy. The Marshal says he knows the land well and can get me in anny-where.”
“Cassidy, uh good Irish name. All duh Cassidys I know are dependable God-fearin’ folks. Being in sooch good hands yuh will not mind taken yer nephew Patrick along.”
“No!”
“Will yuh be breakin’ yer nephew’s heart?”
“He’ll get over it.”
“I already talked tuh yer sister aboot it. Sean Daugherty’s escape is the biggest story in town. It’s put the Doc Cronin murder case on the second page. She’s sure this would estahalish Patrick as a rayporter.”
“There is no way he’s goin’!”
CHAPTER 7
THE ROAD WEST
As the glow of the coming dawn began to illuminate the creaking railroad car, Mike McGhan looked around at the huddled humanity trying to improvise a way to sleep. The two young girls in front of him had put their suitcases on the floor in front of their seat and had fashioned a bed of sorts. Even with their short statures, they had to bend at the waist to fit. Their bottoms touched and they looked like Siamese twins. The large man in front of them was lying with his back to the window and his leg draped over the seat. Mike could smell the man’s horrific body odor two seats back and didn’t wonder why the porter diplomatically left him alone as he brought new passengers on board.
“Hey, Uncle Mike,” said young Patrick Donegal, waking abruptly with a sudden lurch of the train. “What time is it?”
Mike looked at his young nephew who was attempting to accommodate his willowy six-foot frame into the confines of the coach seat. Having fanagled his way aboard on this journey, he felt no pity for the scholarly-looking lad.
“What difference does it make? It’s still dark out.”
“I don’t ever remember feeling this beat up,” said Patrick, twisting his neck to get a kink out. “Couldn’t you have talked the police department into a sleeper car? I thought you had some pull.”
“I thought yuh were uh big Nother Dame football player. Ridin’ on this railroad car all night shouldn’t bother you. Besides yer ten years younger than me. Think about how sittin’ in this seat all night is on me tired old arse.”
“You sound like you’re in your sixties, not your thirties,” Patrick yawned. He looked around the car with a curious boredom. Uncle Mike was the only soul awake on this rolling torture chamber. If they were going to spend two days on this train, his Uncle was lucky that he had thought of something interesting to say.
“I tell you, Uncle Mike, the detectives of Chicago are soon going to be in the midst of an embarrassing situation,” young Patrick Donegal said assuredly. “Peter Finley Dunne is about to break this Doc Cronin case wide open. Irony. That’s the key to this mystery. That’s what he told us at the Whitechapel.”
“Well, me partner Bockleman was just assigned that case. I guess I’d better tellygraph him tuh say thet Mr. Peter Finley Dunne has already solved it.”
“They split you guys up to cover the two biggest cases in town,” replied Patrick, suitably impressed.
“Mr. Peter Finley Dunne,” said Mike in an effort to change the subject. “Now this is duh lad that writes that Mr. Dooley’s Chicago column. The one written so it makes fun ov how we Irish talk.”
“It’s written in dialect. I wouldn’t say it makes fun of us as much as it shows our sense of humor.”
“I dun’t know what he’s doin’, but it’s a pain in the arse tuh read,” Mike said.
He shifted around to try to get comfortable in the wooden slat railroad seat. “I think yer spendin’ too much time down there on Newsboy Alley with those scamps.”
“Newsboy Alley! The gents at the Whitechapel Club are the sharpest literary wits in the city - possibly the whole damn country,” Patrick protested, leaning forward in his seat and waving his hands around.
“Well, if they’re so damn swell, why are yuh packin’ your sorry arse west with me?”
“What you’re working on has the potential of being bigger than the Doc Cronin case. Bringing back the killer of the next governor’s wife! The love angle is built in. He did it because she disapproved of him seeing her daughter Sarah so he threw her off the balcony.”
“And did he think thet duh next governor of the state of Illinois was goin’ tuh welcome a shanty Irish lad who just killed his wife into the fine Carver family?”
“It was not anything Daugherty thought out,” said Patrick. “It was a crime of passion. A rage brought on by the division of the social classes.”
“Will yuh knock it off?” Mike hissed under his breath. “Yuh sound like one ov them German anny-archists.”
“So what are you going to do, shoot me?”
“Well, I’ve heard warse ideas lately.”
“It was none other than James Madison himself that concluded in the Federalist Papers that the major problem of the republic would be the uneven distribution of wealth.”
Mike realized he had opened up an intellectual can of worms and turned towards the window trying to find a way to close the lid. The rising sun revealed a strange landform.
“What’s that?” asked Mike, pointing out the window.
“I don’t know,” said Pat, “It just looks like it popped out of the ground.”
“It’s called a butte,” said a prim-looking man sitting across the aisle from Patrick. “I think they are just rocks whose tops are at the original ground level. The soft soil just eroded away around them. It took many centuries of course.”
“Strange looking things,” said Mike. “At least there’s something tuh see besides miles ov grass.”
“First time west for you gentlemen?”
“Yes,” said Patrick. “We are going to capture an escaped
fugitive and bring him back for trial in Illinois.”
Mike leaned over to Pat and nudged him. “You dun’t have tuh tell everyone on tuh train our business, yuh know.”
“Phinias Trout,” said the man in the suit and bow tie, extending his hand. “I sell barbed wire.”
“Oh, a drummer are yuh?” asked Mike.
“Well, ah, yes…I suppose you could say that. I prefer to think of myself as a field representative of Armstrong Fencing. We sell the finest assortment of barbed wire available on the market today.” He opened a leather case and displayed four samples of varying thickness and braid. “This, gentlemen, is what will tame the West.”
Pat peered into the case at the foot long pieces of woven steel wire with jagged barbs and smiled politely. Mike looked out the window and yawned.
“They are for fencing cattle,” said Phinias politely, sensing the two city-dwellers did not fully comprehend his mission in life.
“Oh, yeah,” said Patrick, slowly grasping the concept. “I guess that would do it. I mean, if I were a cow, that would certainly keep me in.”
“A larger part of my business is keeping cattle out. I sell more to farmers trying to hold their land against arrogant cattlemen who have not yet accepted the idea that the open range is a thing of the past. The ranches owned by foreign investors are my new market. Imagine a cattle pen thousands of acres large.”
“Are there a lot of foreign ranch owners?” asked Pat.
“Yes, but not as many as a few years ago,” replied Phinias, “I am on the way in hopes of meeting with Sir Horace Plunkett who runs the EK Ranch. His father was Lord Dunsany.”
“Yuh mean it’s not enough fer those limey bastards tuh own Ireland, they got tuh try to grab up all they can over here!” Mike shouted, suddenly taking new interest in the conversation. “Didn’t we fight a war years ago tuh throw those tea-sippin’tyrants out ov this country and now duh law allows them tuh come back’n buy duh damn place.”
Phinias’ complexion pinkened from Mike’s eruption. He was quick to realize he had brought up the wrong subject to a couple of Irishmen. He looked down sheepishly at his sample case and busied himself putting it back together. Several passengers turned around to check out the commotion. Mike turned back towards the window.
The Cassidy Posse Page 5
